Tuesday, February 15, 2011

So, yesterday was, of course, the big Feb-1-4, &, as I've already spewed some vitriol on the subject hereabouts, I won't give my cynicism too much play—suffice it to say that my Valentines Day consisted mostly of a Sunday-through-Monday all-nighter in the library with Immanuel Kant, furiously expounding on the Categorical Imperative, killing the occasional cockroach. & no, that's not a euphemism—though it is, I think, an apt metaphor for a lot of things.

Still, it would be unfair to disregard my evening: after a brief & pseudo-delirious disco nap, I hopped up to celebrate a friend's birthday—which involved pink pancakes & Salt-n-Pepa & all kinds of loveliness—so it wasn't all bad. It's never really all bad, I think.

Anyhow, when I got back to my bed, the sugar buzz hadn't quite worn off, so I spent a little while awake reading poems (because, yes, I'm that kid) & I stumbled on one of my favorites by one of my favorites: a tribute to a saint's day—perhaps not the right one in name, but jiving quite ideal with its (or, at least, my) spirit. (Especially parts II & III. Especially the final stanza.)

Song for St. Cecilia's Day.W.H. Auden, July 1940.

I.

In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean's margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell's abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions
To all musicians, appear and inspire:
Translated Daughter, come down and startle
Composing mortals with immortal fire.

II.

I cannot grow; I have no shadow To run away from, I only play

I cannot err; There is no creature Whom I belong to, Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat When it knows it Can now do nothing By suffering.

All you lived through, Dancing because you No longer need it For any deed.

I shall never be Different. Love me.

III.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall, O calm of spaces unafraid of weight, Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all The gaucheness of her adolescent state, Where Hope within the altogether strange From every outworn image is released, And Dread born whole and normal like a beast Into a world of truths that never change: Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds,
Playing among the ruined languages,
So small beside their large confusing words,
So gay against the greater silences
Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head,
Impetuous child with the tremendous brain,
O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain,
Lost innocence who wished your lover dead,
Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin Is drawn across our trembling violin.O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain
O law drummed out by hearts against the still Long winter of our intellectual will.That what has been may never be again
O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath Of convalescents on the shores of death.O bless the freedom that you never chose
O trumpets that unguarded children blow About the fortress of their inner foe.O wear your tribulation like a rose

My Name is:

Jukebox graduate. Post-collegiate. Recovering anemophobic, fresh off the boat with a dance belt & a tube of chapstick. An alligator, a mama-papa comin' for you. Unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death—or, you know, between old West Wing episodes & showertime Ramones renditions. Turn-ons: Poe stories, sparkly things; turn-offs: self-proclaimed audiophiles, Twitter. Lifelong ambition: to write a book for the 33 1/3 Series—&/or marry Eddie Izzard.
In someone else's words: "I am a confused musician who got sidetracked into this goddamn Word business for so long that I never got back to music—except maybe when I find myself oddly alone in a quiet room with only a typewriter to strum on and a yen to write a song. Who knows why? Maybe I just feel like singing—so I type. These quick electric keys are my Instrument, my harp, my RCA glass-tube microphone, and my fine soprano saxophone all at once. That is my music, for good or ill, and on some nights it will make me feel like a god."